The Godspeaker Trilogy (125 page)

“High godspeaker?” said Anchiko novice, behind him. “The godpool is filled.”

He waited a moment before turning, so the breeze could dry his face. “Good. Return to your duties.”

Anchiko bowed and withdrew. Vortka watched him retreat down the godhouse corridor, his roughspun robe splashed scarlet in places.

I was that young once, I was that fearful of my fearsome high godspeaker. I am not Nagarak, I do not grow fat on the fear of novices, yet they fear me anyway. I never dreamed this would be me, I never asked for this power. Seasons pass, so many seasons, and I find myself understanding it less and less.

Perhaps in the godpool he would receive an answer.

The novices were well trained, all was ready for him in the tiled room given over to the god. It was fortunate the Jatharuj official had been a man fond of his luxuries. The sunken bath was profligate, large enough for five grown men. Small for a godpool, though, mean compared to the godpool in the godhouse on Raklion's Pinnacle, but for his purpose it sufficed.

The air in the tiled room hung heavy with the scent of blood. He stripped to his skin, laying his stone scorpion pectoral carefully on the tiled floor. It had not woken for so many seasons, every highsun he prayed it would not wake again.

The blood in the godpool was cool and cloying, teetering on the edge of turning rotten. This Icthia was not like Et-Raklion, where the godhouse farms bred countless sacred beasts for sacrifice. There was less blood here, it had to be hoarded, kept until it reached the point of reeking. He felt his skin cringe at its touch. The stench clogged his nose and mouth, coated his tongue with nausea. As it closed over his head a sob caught in his throat.

Forgive me, god, forgive this sinning man in your eye.

In the dark redness of the godpool, where he could not walk properly but only crawl, he opened his heart and his mind to the god.

We are trapped in Icthia, god, we are trapped in Jatharuj. Is this your doing or do demons rise against you? We sit in your eye, we wait for your desire, what is your want? Is Hekat right, must we sacrifice more slaves to break the demons' hold on the trade winds? Or do you keep them from us for some other purpose? I am here, god, in the godpool, Vortka high godspeaker, your servant in the world. I seek to know your will, speak to me that I might obey you, I have obeyed you all my life.

His snakeblade heart remained silent. He felt tears well behind his closed eyelids, felt them swell in his chest and make his heart throb with pain.

Why are you silent, god? Have I displeased you? Did I sin, saving Zandakar? Should I have let Dmitrak kill him?

His lips were pressed tight against the stinking blood, he sobbed in his throat but did not let the sound escape. How could he have done that, how could he have given his son to Nagarak's blighted son for killing?

Peace, Vortka. You did not sin. Zandakar lives, he is meant to live. Tell no-one, his life is in your hands.

He did sob then, and the rancid blood poured into his mouth. Choking, his belly heaving, he struggled to stay with the god, to hear its faint voice.

No more human sacrifice, Vortka. The wind is the wind, it will come when it comes. Be patient. Be guided. Your heart knows the true path.

He did burst free of the godpool then, it was burst free or drown. Flailing, coughing, he clung to the bath's tiled sides, retching.

The godpool door opened and a novice looked in. “High godspeaker? High godspeaker!”

They were listening, outside this tiled room? When he told them to leave him they lingered? They disobeyed?

“Did I ask for your presence?” he growled. “I think I did not!”

It was a different novice, not Anchiko, it was a girl, her name was – was – Rinka
. “Forgive me, high godspeaker,” she whispered. “I was passing, I heard a sound.”

Exhausted, he clung to the dark blue tiles. His bones ached, his muscles trembled, his heart beat like a worn-out drum. The sacred blood dripped slowly, its stink would linger many highsuns. Whispering faintly, the god's voice.

Your heart knows the true path.

And yet he felt as ignorant as any novice.

Rinka's dark eyes were wide and frightened, she knelt at the godpool's edge and stared at him. “Vortka high godspeaker, should I send for a healer?”

A healer? No. He was healed already, the snakeblade pain was gone from his heart. Zandakar lives
. “I have no need of healing, novice,” he said. His voice was a harsh wheeze. “You may assist me, I must speak with the empress. I must cleanse myself and dress in fresh robes. Help me out.”

So long ago Hekat rode his body, she rode him to spilling seed and together they made Zandakar. That Vortka's body was young and strong, it stirred at young Hekat's touch, it yearned for sensation. Now he stood naked beneath the water sluicing from the spigot in the corner, Rinka's young touch swished him free of blood and he felt nothing. He was a stone man, unstirred.

In his hating eyes Dmitrak calls me an old man, he is right. I am old. I am withered. I am shrunken for the god. Does it matter? I think it does not. Zandakar lives.

“High godspeaker?” said Rinka, hesitating.

He pretended his tears were water from the spigot, he pretended he did not want to sob out his joy. “You may leave me,” he said. “Return to your tasks.”

She did not want to leave him, her eyes were full of worry, but he was the high godspeaker. To disobey was to die. So she left and closed the door behind her.

He was alone, he let himself sag against the cool tiles. I am the high godspeaker, the god has spoken in the godpool. Now I must tell Hekat she cannot summon the trade winds. Aieee, god. The tasks you set.

It was not one of Hekat's good days, Vortka saw that immediately. Good days came to Hekat more rarely with each passing fat godmoon.

“What do you want?” she demanded, propped on her cushioned divan. “Do I need more healing, Vortka? I think I do not.”

Zandakar lives. Tell no-one
. She would not be surprised to hear it, she never believed their son was dead. But the god was the god, he kept that news to himself.

“Empress,” he said, and gently closed the chamber door. For her palace she had taken the home of a Jatharuj merchant, a rich man with much coin to spend on comfort and lavish display. His coin had not saved his life, of course, his bones bleached too, his blood was long since spilled to serve the god.

The palace's balcony doors stood wide open to let in the fresh salt air. He breathed in its sweetness, willing the godpool's stink to fade. Smiling, he crossed the soft carpet to reach Hekat, took her hand in his and kissed its knuckles. Gold bracelets chimed on her wrist. Her bony wrist, so fleshless, with only half of the strength he remembered remaining.

“Tcha,” she said, as though he'd displeased her, but that was for show, for habit, she was pleased. “You came to kiss me, Vortka? We are long past that.”

So many godmoons they had walked through life together, he did not ask if he could sit. He pulled a cushioned stool closer and lowered his skinny haunches to its soft comfort. “I have been in the godpool.”

Her face had shrunk to scars and eyes. Every curve and edge of her skull was visible beneath her taut scarred skin, her blue eyes were fading, her plump lips were grown thin. Pain lived inside her, his desperate healing could not chase it away. Her godbraids were a torment, too heavy for her head. She refused to lighten them by a single amulet, by one solitary godbell. She was the empress, her godbraids praised the god.

“In the godpool,” she echoed. Now her blue eyes were hungry. She leaned forward, fingers clenching. “The god spoke? What did it say?”

He took a deep breath, braced himself for her fury. “It said there must be no human sacrifice for the trade winds. The trade winds will come in their time, and not before.”

“Tcha!” she spat, she drummed her heels on the wide divan. “You misheard it, Vortka! I will swim in the godpool, the god speaks to me as well as you.”

“I did not mishear it, Hekat, I heard it well enough,” he replied. “And you are too frail to swim in the godpool.”

She threw a cushion at him. “Too frail? Too frail
? Who are you to tell an empress she is too frail?”

He took her hand again, it was like holding a bird's claw. “You know who I am, I am Vortka, your dear friend. I am Mijak's high godspeaker, I tell you the truth. Always the truth, though you seldom wish to hear it.”

“Tcha,” she said, and tugged her hand free. “Because your truths are soft, they do not please me. I wish to sail!”

“And we will sail, Hekat. When the winds come, we will sail.”

“Why do they not come, Vortka?” she said, pettish. “Are your godspeakers grown weak in their faith?”

He shook his head, smiling again. Smiling though his healed heart pained him. You were so beautiful, Hekat, time has not been kind
. “You know they are strong. You know I train them well.”

“Then where are the trade winds? Why are my warships becalmed?”

He sighed. “Hekat, we do not need to know the god's purpose to know its will. There are reasons the winds are slow, I cannot tell you what they are. I am the god's high godspeaker, I am not the god.”

She snorted. “Do I need you to tell me that? I think I do not!”

“Hekat…” For the third time he took her hand in his, folded her fingers to his palm. “You need me to be your friend, I am your friend, I will be your friend no matter what you say or do.”

For a heartbeat her eyes were brilliant, then she killed soft emotion. It was her way. “Vortka, we must have the trade winds. Are you certain you heard the god right?”

He nodded. “I am certain.”

“Aieee, tcha,” she said, and let her head fall back. “Can the god be wrong? I think it cannot. We will wait, high godspeaker. We will wait and pray.”

His relief was so great it was like pain. But beneath relief churned sorrow. She had surrendered too easily, she did not fight him long enough.

She is weary. She is worn out. Send the trade winds soon, god.

For Elaine, whose friendship kept me going when the going got really tough.

E
dward, Duke of Morvell, cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Majesty, but Damwin and Kyrin leave you no choice. You'll have to fight them.”

Rhian stood at her privy council chamber window, back turned to her councillors, and felt her fingers curl into fists. She had such a fondness for her staunch and stalwart supporter, but even so…

Don't tell me what I have to do, Edward. You know such intransigent talk sours my temper.

Instead of answering, she stared down at bustling Kingseat harbour. She had a perfect view from within the castle, so high above the town. Even though it was early, yet before nine of the clock, the harbour's blue waters were clogged with vessels coming and going, loading and unloading their various cargos. As though no danger loomed in the east. As though life in its sweet safety would never change.

But it will. Life as we know it will soon be torn asunder, if the witchmen of Tzhung-tzhungchai can be believed.

She had no reason to doubt them. It was seductive wishful thinking, no more, that enticed her to hope calamity was not come upon them, that war on a scale unimaginable did not hold its foul breath, waiting to exhale and spit death on them all.

As if I needed more proof, with Zandakar locked in a dungeon beneath my feet.

A mistake, to think of Zandakar. Her eyes burned, the distant harbour prismed, as the pain of betrayal seared anew.

He should've told me who he really was. What his people are planning. He should've trusted me. I thought we were friends.

Thrusting pain aside, she turned. Let her gaze first touch upon Alasdair, silent at the table. His expression was sober, serious, most kingly indeed, but her heart beat just a little bit faster as his eyes warmed.

My husband. My husband.

But she kept her own face as well-schooled as his. In this council chamber she was queen, and he was only a councillor. Let one man think Alasdair guided her steps, ruled from the shadows…

Edward was frowning. “Majesty—”

“Yes, Edward,” she snapped. “I heard you.”

“And what I said is not to your liking, I'm well aware of that,” he said, sighing. “But my duty isn't to tell you what you want to hear. My best service lies in telling you what's needful. And so I tell you now, knowing full well you're likely to sharpen your tongue on me for saying it: Damwin and Kyrin must be confronted. It's been nearly two weeks since you were crowned and they have yet to pledge fealty. Their recalcitrant defiance keeps Ethrea in a turmoil.”